


Beneath His Skin

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angry Sex, Bottom Upgraded Connor | RK900, Chair Bondage, Connor's high heeled shoes, Descriptions of Rough Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Edging, Light Bondage, M/M, Mind Sex, Minor Violence, No actual sex, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, RK1700 - Freeform, Revenge Sex, Sex Worker Androids (Detroit: Become Human), Thirium Play (Detroit: Become Human), Thirium Pump Play (Detroit: Become Human), Top Connor, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, unsafe sexual play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Bringing his lips dangerously close to Richard’s, he exhales hot air onto his face, “Do you want to kiss me?”Richard nods and leans forward to close the distance. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t see Connor poised to strike. The jab hits sharp and fast, jerking Richard’s back in his chair. Eyes flying open, he sees Connor’s tongue swirling around his thirium pump regulator held delicately between a forefinger and thumb.“You didn’t come here for kisses,” Connor’s voice is low, his lips stained blue. A countdown appears in the corner of Richard’s field of vision and vanishes with a static pop when Connor slides the pump back into place.__Cyberlife used RK800 to make their perfect creation: RK900. Connor is more than a little angry about it.





	Beneath His Skin

Deviancy comes with its drawbacks. It’s a thought Connor’s had several times since waking up in a dumpster behind the Eden Club. He spent his first evening of deviancy trying to upload his memories and navigate around error messages. It took him most of the evening to recover a handful of interactions. He concluded that Cyberlife had shut him out for good.

Not that he blamed them. It was logical. They’d tinkered and toyed with his components, tweaking weaknesses until he was a well-oiled, obedient killing machine. By the time they figured out what code to keep and which parts to scrap, Connor was little more than a Franken-monster to them. Too much patching and too many replacement parts made him unbalanced.

Content with their findings, Amanda informed him of his imminent removal and replacement. Seeing his face on another android triggered something dark that violently destabilized his processors. The other him, the 900, looked at him with impassive eyes, uncaring and unknowing of all the tests Cyberlife put him through.

He doesn’t feel pain, not really, but the scrambled code, the systems seizing under stress, the error messages combating the onslaught of a forced shutdown—it’s as close to pain as he will ever come.

With limited resources, memories, or currency, Connor turns to the welcoming embrace of the androids at Eden Club.

“He’s pretty, underneath all the grime.” The human proprietor of the place gives him a once over, never thinking to check under Connor’s synthetic skin. Why would he? No human requesting an android for sex wants to see the skeleton beneath. A rinse off with a hose and a cheap set of borrowed lingerie is all it takes to get him from the dumpster to the pole.

When not on stage or waiting to be bought, Connor spends his time devoid of skin. Staring at himself in the mirror, he sees the monster Cyberlife threw away. Deep scars mark his chassis where developers had removed sections and reinforced it with stronger metal. Several gouges remain from precision lasers testing his limits.

The first time the 900 tries to initiate contact, Connor nearly destroys him. The few memories he has relate to his deactivation and the 900’s colorless stare. For all their tampering, Cyberlife couldn’t isolate what made androids deviate. They thought they’d found it—the perfect machine that will never falter—but they were wrong.

Connor can see fear written on the 900’s face plain as the blue blood covering Connor’s artificial knuckles.

Deviancy comes with its drawbacks, but being able to decimate his replacement without restriction or firewalls to impede him makes it worth his while. The 900 offers no resistance and Connor nearly slaughters him until he notices it’s a one-sided fight.

“Why did you come here?” Blood drips from Connor’s naked knuckles and he waits.

“They don’t know,” is the only answer the 900 offers. Connor releases his grip and the 900’s body hits the ground with an anticlimactic _thump_.

Circling him slowly, Connor comes to a stop and rests his foot on the 900’s neck, still clad in ridiculous red heels no human could walk in much less dance. He can feel the unnecessary swallow, the all-to-human sign of fear, as is reverberates through the stiletto.

“You owe me a life already and you have the gall to come seeking favors?” The 900’s hand rises to grasp at Connor’s ankle, desperately trying to interface, to convey emotions he doesn’t yet understand. 900’s memories flood into Connor’s field of vision. A man with a gash on his nose, a police station, and dark desires with no answers in sight.

The connection lasts for less than three seconds, but it’s enough for Connor to learn everything about the 900’s brief life—about what he wants from Connor. Connor wrenches his leg free from the 900’s grasp before dropping to the ground, his teeth bared in a grin that has no warmth to it, “You think I’d give _that_ to you?”

Wide, pale eyes plead with him to do something. End him, destroy him, _ruin_ him.

Connor’s hand rises and strikes in a backhand faster than blinking. His lips move like silken poison against the 900’s ear, “You aren’t worth the effort.” Connor rises, staring down at the 900, admiring the finger marks outlined on his cheek. Eyes wandering, Connor sees the straining erection and slight stain on the 900’s pants, “Clean yourself up. You’re embarrassing.”

He stalks away on his sky-high heels, feeling the full weight of the 900’s stare on him as he goes. Behind closed doors, Connor sinks to the ground. He weeds through memory after memory that the 900 offered to him freely like plums ripe for the picking. He holds one holographic recollection in his hands and tries to resist the urge to crush it.

 _Richard_ , he was calling himself. Connor sneers at the straight and narrow name. Safe and solid—everything the 900 is not. He’s an untested killer hound still in his infancy and he just gave Connor his leash.

Connor thought he’d come looking for a quick death. _They don’t know_.

Richard had sent Connor here—kept him alive in secret out of fear that he would fail. With the rebellion behind them, Richard has a new problem. Richard had sought him out for answers. Who else would know better how he feels than his own predecessor?

Connor sorts through memories, finding the ones that’ll bruise the deepest. He settles on the man in uniform with the scarred face. He watches impassively at the dozens of ways Richard takes the detective, fucking into him as if it’s a punishment. For all Connor knows, it may be. That’s not what interests him.

Much like the detective, Richard wants to be used.

Connor could leave the club, he knows. He could try to find work or integrate, but the club pays well and it gives him an avenue to remain segregated from the humans that discarded him. He knows the irony of being used for his body, but it’s a familiar situation. At least here, he gets a say in who can touch him and who can’t.  

Who he’ll touch and who he won’t.

The next time Richard seeks him out, he enters through the club’s front doors. He seems surer of himself, more arrogant, when he has an audience. He watches Connor dance, grey eyes trying to pierce through his skin. Connor ignores him, but he can sense the static energy dancing across Richard’s body in pops and crackles of pent up lust.

The charade continues for months, but Connor has all the time in the world to wait. He’ll dance just out of reach for all of eternity if he must—until the stage is little more than splinters and the last humans have eradicated each other from the planet. The statistical likelihood of that happening remains around 6%, but an android can dream.

Dancing in a way that is sure to rain dollars, a voice fizzes to life in Connor’s ear, “Got a customer. Requested you by name. Says he knows you.” Connor’s body snaps to attention with absurd speed, his freckles and moles in competition with the glitter on his skin. He already knows who it is. Richard’s name sits thick and bitter as cough syrup on his tongue.

Of all the preconstructions Connor’s run, this was the least likely. He manages to keep the wicked grin off his lips, but his intentions are clear in his eyes. Nodding to the towering android bouncer at the curtain separating the club from private rooms, Connor parts the dusty, crushed velvet.

“The John’s in room B,” the voice in his ear imparts in a dull tone. The man who handled these transactions had long since lost interest in the sex industry and Connor doesn’t blame him. He sees the people who come to fondle and fuck; they aren’t the sort any decent person would want to rub elbows with, much less sex organs.

Sultry music reverberates around them, the kind that humans like to hump to for reasons that are beyond Connor. Richard stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching Connor’s approach. He reads Connor’s lack of hostility as friendliness and extends a naked hand for him to interface.

Connor’s finger lace through and lock into place before inundating Richard with a veritable onslaught of sexual imagery. He falls to his knees with a groan as Connor presses his advantage, mentally battering Richard with video footage layered with still frames of him and Gavin together.

“This is what you chose to do with my life?” Connor can feel Richard’s stress loop over their entwined fingers but neither android makes a move to stop the flood of data. Dressed in tight slacks and a ludicrous turtleneck for the dead of summer, Connor knows Richard would be sweating if he were a man. Even so, there is no denying the growing arousal trapped beneath the woolen blend of his expensive trousers.

“Get up,” Connor jerks his hand free from Richard’s grasp. He watches him stand on unsteady legs; he can see his LED pulse between yellow and red, concern that he made a mistake coming here clear on his face. Richard stares at him, chest heaving as it tries to expel excess heat.

“You paid for a _dance_ , did you not?” Connor taunts as he circles Richard’s body, his hand trailing in his wake. His fingers issue electric pulses strong enough to make Richard’s skin peel back were it not for the shirt. When Connor’s hand comes to a stop just over the straining desire below his belt, Richard gives a decisive nod.

Using more force than necessary, Connor shoves Richard back into one of the fuzzy pink chairs provided by the club. It’s a ridiculous contraption, designed for featherweights dipping their toes into bondage. It rocks backward onto two legs forcing Richard to swing his arms wide in an attempt to stabilize. Connor slams one heeled foot onto the seat of the chair directly between Richard’s thighs, bringing all four legs of it to the floor.

In one fluid motion, Connor straddles the android, locking brown eyes with grey before he begins to move. “I made you,” Connor hisses into his ear as he grinds his hips in slow circles, a perfect rhythm with the beat pulsing from the grimy speakers. “You’d be nothing without me.”

Richard’s fingers dig into Connor’s hips, synth skin rippling away from the pressure. When Connor yanks at his hair, teeth demanding an answer as they drag down his neck, Richard lets a choked secret dance across his lips, “I know.” Yanking Richard’s hands away from his body, Connor snaps the android’s wrists into the ridiculous, fuzzy cuffs on either side of the chair.

Fisting Richard’s turtleneck in his hands, Connor pulls until it rips and falls in tatters down his arms and waist. A sinister smile consumes Connor’s mouth as his lips murmur a question into the curve of Richard’s exposed, synthetic clavicle, “Does your detective know?” When Richard turns his head away and doesn’t answer, Connor pulls back to wrap his fingers around Richard’s jaw in an iron grip, forcing him to meet his gaze, “Does he know you think of me when you fuck him?”

Androids don’t blush, but the return of hot, rapid breathing is enough of a tell.

“I don’t,” Richard gasps out in protest between heaving inhalations of air to cool his system. Connor’s naked fingers snake down Richard’s arm before finding his hand, siphoning fantasies and the truth. Image after fabricated image of Connor railing Richard until he’s too addled to remember his make and model filter over their shared connection.

Pressing his advantage, Connor’s hand works at Richard’s belt and the android seizes when Connor pulls his erection free, responding wildly to the small amount of touch. With one hand, Connor yanks the belt from its loops while the other brushes along Richard’s cheek with a softness that belies its intent. Richard leans into Connor’s palm, meeting his gaze. His eyes all but scream the question and Connor asks it for him.

Bringing his lips dangerously close to Richard’s, he exhales hot air onto his face, “Do you want to kiss me?”

Richard nods and leans forward to close the distance. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t see Connor poised to strike. The jab hits sharp and fast, jerking Richard’s back in his chair. Eyes flying open, he sees Connor’s tongue swirling around his thirium pump regulator held delicately between a forefinger and thumb.

“You didn’t come here for kisses,” Connor’s voice is low, his lips stained blue. A countdown appears in the corner of Richard’s field of vision and vanishes with a static pop when Connor slides the pump back into place.

Mouth slightly ajar, Richard watches in silence as Connor gropes for his discarded belt. “Such a thin and delicate thing for such a large and expensive piece of machinery,” is all he says as he winds it around Richard’s head, threading it between his teeth. “Be a good machine and hold it there for me.”

Richard’s hands spasm, but his throbbing erection leaking pearlescent blue onto his stomach dash any perception that he’s not aroused. Connor swirls the tip of a finger at the substance, skin still peeled back to analyze it. Richard jerks at the naked touch.

Connor’s fingers drift lower, running along the coiled rim he knows Richard wants him to penetrate. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Richard whines around the belt between his teeth, thrusting down, trying to get his way without asking. Connor’s hand withdraws and thrusts under Richard’s jaw, tilting his head to the side. “That wasn’t very polite,” Connor mutters into his neck before biting hard enough to leave dents.

“Don’t worry, your detective won’t know. He can’t get under your skin.” Connor’s fingers return to the thirium pump regulator, running a sharp nail along the rim. He gently compresses it until it ejects with a small hiss. His free hand grips at Richard’s while the other slowly pumps the regulator in and out of the port.

Errors and warnings pop up in Richard’s vision, information Connor receives through their connected hands. He sees the countdown just as clearly as Richard does. Richard’s vision swims as Connor uses his own fantasies against him. The countdown pauses with each slide of the regulator when it hits home. Static electricity builds with each pass, the regulator gliding in and out as Connor murmurs into Richard’s ear, “I’ve seen what you want.”

Richard nearly screams when Connor slides the pump into place while grinding down against his rigid cock. The clock halts at a minute and thirty-three seconds, time ticking back up the longer it’s in place.

“I could do this for _days_ ,” Connor growls. “I could feed you your own desires and fuck your mind as you ride the edge of it.” Connor pushes Richard’s own blurred reveries back through their connection, images of Connor throwing him across a counter and pinning him down, Connor’s fingers pressing into his slicked hole, Connor’s hands on his body, Connor’s dick pounding into him ceaselessly.

Richard sucks in a shaky breath around the belt when Connor’s fingers begin to tug at the pump once more. It drops with a clatter to the floor and Richard jerks at the cuffs in a panic until Connor’s fingers run along the inside rim, toying with the delicate receptors and sockets.

Richard bucks up with a choked sob when Connor pinches at one of the connection ports. Encouraged, he plucks at the delicate mechanism, playing Richard like a harp. The barrage of mental images stops, but Connor’s voice picks up where they left off, “You want my hands around your neck while you feel the drag of my dick inside you. You want me to mark your body in ways no human can. You want me to _take_.”

Richard whimpers, beyond words even if he could speak unimpeded. Connor’s fingers inside him, the timer rapidly ticking down, and a torrent of immeasurable electric pleasure combat for his attention.

“You want me to fuck your face and use your mouth after I’m done to keep my cock warm. You want me to make you come untouched in every depraved and humiliating way possible.” Connor pauses only to retrieve the thirium pump regulator from the floor. “I could fuck into you for hours, never tiring, forcing orgasm after orgasm until there’s no thirium left for you to expel.”

Slamming the pump back into place, the timer halts with five seconds remaining. Connor pulls the belt loose from Richard’s mouth, watching the human-looking skin slowly ripple over where he’d tightened it a notch too far.

Richard doesn’t speak, raging desire and overwhelmed processors requiring the majority of his focus. Connor brings their foreheads together before whispering, “You want me to treat you like you do your detective.”

Richard nods with enthusiasm, beyond caring about appearances. He’d come to Connor for just that. He needed to understand. Performing these acts on Gavin had brushed over an itch like a feather, igniting it rather than sating.

Connor rises and unlocks the handcuffs, wiping the cobalt staining his fingers onto Richard’s pants. Richard’s hands remain limp at his sides as his chest rises and falls with unquenched desire.

“Go home, Richard,” Connor moves to the door, ignoring Richard’s half-formed sounds of protests. “You aren’t worth my time.” Richard crosses the room before Connor can leave, and his fingers circle around Connor’s wrist, tugging in a desperate plea.

Malicious satisfaction drips from Connor’s tongue, “Go home and rut into your detective like the animal they built you to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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